When I was 13 I saved a life. My father usually got one week of the year off work and he took it in summer when we were out of school so we could see my mom's parents in Arkansas. Comfortably crammed into an orange VW van with pom pom fringed curtains, were my mom, dad, younger brother and sister, our two German Shepherds, our luggage and a cooler of sandwiches and drinks. A fourteen hour pilgrimage to the tune of Jimi Hendrix, the Allman Brothers and Lynard Skynard on 8 track. The ritual began with my dad getting us all up around 3 or 4 in the morning. Groggily we stumbled to the van with our pillows and blankets and fell back asleep rumbling down the highway in darkness. Even though staying overnight in a motel half way through would have made the trip much more tolerable, they were not willing to waste a day of that precious week, nor the money to do so, so they always drove straight through. The summer of 1979 was an exception.
I can't remember if it was car trouble or my dad was tired, but for whatever the reason, he decided to split the trip in half and pulled into a Holiday Inn. The motel had a pool and we were excited. We didn't have a neighborhood pool at home at it wasn't very often we went swimming in one. It was still sunny and warm even though it was late in the day. The pool was packed. Kids were everywhere and moms and dads were lounging in the chairs with books and magazines. There was a diving board with kids lined up dripping and shivering, waiting for their next turn. I remember the laughter. So much loud laughter.
It was a beautiful day. The sky was blue and the pool was clear and clean. The splashes made by canon balls, illuminated in the late afternoon light, exploded like bursting golden fireworks. The board made its reverberating 'boy yoi yoing' as if it were giggling along with the kids. I was waist deep, getting used to the cold of the water when I saw him, or rather, part of him. I could see the top of his head, just a small clump of pale blonde hair at the crown. His arms were flailing around above him and the clump of hair thrashed back and forth in the water like reeds at the edge of a flooded river.
Was he playing? The jerking was unnatural. He moved like a marionette operated by a 2 year old. I felt a sharpness in my chest that I did not recognize yet, because I was young. Now, I know that sharpness as Fear. The specific Fear that is married with Confusion. Together they produce Panic which is often the predecessor of Despair. The sharpness is inside you but caused by what is outside you, and it tells you something terrible is happening before you are sure what it is. There were people all around but no one seemed to see him but me. He didn't come up for air. He had been under too long. I had been moving toward him while expecting to see a mother or father come near. Someone had to be watching him. Someone. He was little. His arms moved slower, then weakened and dropped. First one, then the other. He sank slowly, his little arms crossed crookedly across the top of his head.
I got to him as fast as I could. I was still no deeper than my chest. I hooked my hands under his armpits and was not prepared for his weight. I had to use all my strength to pull him up. Then in an act of hopeful desperation he jolted underneath me and clamored and clawed up my torso nearly dragging us both back under. Water is what I see when I think of the moment he came to the surface. Water flooded out of his mouth and nose. He vomited what seemed like gallons and gallons of water. His legs wrapped around me and his arms squeezed my neck. His fingernails dug into my shoulders. He was literally holding on for dear life. He coughed and gagged a long time, his face splotchy with jagged purple patches. And then he cried. He cried the most horrible gut wrenching sobs. I felt his terror in my bones. Not one person seemed to notice. No one came over to see if he was okay. No one claimed him. He was not more than 4 years of age. I whispered in his ear comforting words. It's okay. It's okay now. I walked out of the pool with this convulsing boy clinging to me, sucking in each breath as painfully as if the air itself were riddled with tiny pieces of shrapnel. I took him to my mother. She tried to help but he would not let go of me. We asked him questions. "Honey, is your mommy out here?" Can you show me your mommy or your daddy?" He couldn't answer. He just sobbed. I don't know if he was in shock but he couldn't talk. While I held him my mom walked around the pool asking people, "Do you know that little boy over there?" Finally in the line of giggling children at the diving board a couple of kids claimed him as their little brother. "Who is watching him?" my mother asked. "We are." She asked where their parents were and the oldest girl, about ten years old I guess, gave her the motel room number. They didn't even get out of the line. We walked through the pool area and parking lot and took stairs up to the second level of the motel. I never put him down. We found the door and knocked. Then we knocked some more. And then some more. Finally a big man answered the door with a woman standing behind him. She stared at us over his shoulder. Neither of them smiled nor greeted us. They seemed torpid. Almost empty. My mom asked "Is this your little boy?" The man sort of nodded. She told him what happened. Neither of his parents showed any emotion nor did they say a word. Someone took him from me. I don't know why I can't remember which one it was. I just remember the separating of him and me. He screamed. They shut the door without saying thank you or anything. My mom was disturbed, but I wanted to call the police. She told me we had done all we could. He would be fine. Some people are just strange she said.
That night I lay awake because I knew I had not really saved him. If I was truly going to save him I was going to have to steal him from his wretched family. Who was going to take care of him? Who would watch him the next time he went swimming? Or played too near the street? Who would comfort him when he was hurt or sick? Who would be there when he was desperate? I spent the night hours deceiving myself that I could hide him in the back of our van. No one would notice him in the lumpy pile of dogs and blankets.
We left early in the morning as usual. It was dark. I was exhausted and I was afraid. I knew there was nothing I could do but I felt guilty for leaving him. Out the van window I could see their motel door on the second floor. As we drove away I watched for him to come out. Something made me think he might come running after me. I watched until I could no longer see the hotel lights.
From time to time I think of him and wonder. I wonder if he is alive and happy or if being neglected made him mean and miserable like it does to so many. I wonder if he remembers being pulled from the water. I wonder if he was afraid of water after that. I wonder why it was me, out of all those people, to be the only one who saw him drowning. And I wonder why the drowning can't always have that one person who's there to save them.
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